Car bound

Tear home from Liverpool (not exceeding the speed limit, obviously).

I totally deny that the return journey - without stopping off to see Antony Gormley's Another Place as planned - has anything to do with my sudden, dawning fear, the Grit Mobile has no tax and what about the MOT?

Then let this cursed blog be useful for something, like a memo to my future self: 

Grit, when you wake up and shout Oh my god I am illegal! (about this same time next year 2014), your MOT was done 13th April.

You should have got it sorted, you twerp. Now you have a lot of panicky phone calls to make, don't you?

As for Antony Gormley, well, I have come to terms with loss, over the years. It is what makes me; it is a part of my being. I have thus devised cunning ways of lying to myself, bringing loss to promise, turning opportunity from emptiness. Like, my fortune cookie which reads thus: When you leave, you should always create something incomplete. Then you can aspire to return, when there may be time and space to shape something you never could before.

Maybe see you later,  Another Place.

Liverpool Museum, er, in Liverpool

I have a slight problem about this.

Because here we are again. Going to enjoy another fine Liverpool museum and they're about to kick us out.

(The annoying head-in-the-way belongs to Squirrel)

But how can they do this to us? They taunt us with their collections, all dolled up, invite us over with an eye for the off-beat, unusual, delightfully curious, interesting, oh I could go on forever, and then they say Shove off. It's 5 o'clock and we're closing.

I tried to hide in the toilets.

Frankly, I was not surprised when I heard someone tried to throw themselves off this building the other night. They were probably clinging to the balcony shouting Make me leave, you bastards. MAKE ME.

Look, I know we are a bit odd about this - and when we were forced to leave, the man at the desk said in a voice hollow with shock Six hours? Isn't that long enough? - but you can put our oddity down to the fact that we are home educating types; we use museums as a constant source of information and we find a Saxon Liverpudlian head with unusual teeth extremely interesting.
 

 (Saxon Liverpudlian head. You cannot see the teeth in this photo)

We can't help it. Did you know Beryl Bainbridge wasn't only a writer but a fine painter? No, neither did I.

 (Beryl Bainbridge, painter)

And they have bits of old pot! I could spend at least an hour looking at those.

(Bits of old pot)

So it is with some regret, and a small amount of confrontation, that we have to leave the Museum of Liverpool. Yet again. I did not threaten anyone with the toilet roll holder, ignore that. But I did state the obvious. Stop throwing us out, and organise yourselves a later closing time. Then you can do the decent thing by a home educating woman transfixed by your original Saxon head with unusual teeth.

World Museum, Liverpool

Who can failed to be charmed by a name such as World Museum?

It tells me so much about Liverpool. Like, here is Liverpool. Beyond Liverpool? Who knows! Let's just call it the world. Now what's the point of it? Everything you need is right here! In Liverpool! Why do you want to go about concerning yourself with the world?

I went with low expectations, admittedly. The website makes it look like a hangout for toddlers. When I expressed interest in visiting, someone casually said with a curled lip, Oh that place? It's for kids. And yes, the stargazing section was busting with the under-10s.

Creating a campaign aimed at the kid market sells themselves too short. It not only implies the wider (and older) audience is indifferent, it allows some sections of the world to escape attention. But this is so wrong! You should see their Africa section. It has some serious collection and a lot of nkisi. But it was totally empty, apart from one happy toddler and a patient papa.

Fortunately, I messed up the camera setting and by a happy mix of incompetence and random button pressing came away with a lot of brooding photographs in expressive film noir.

Here, enjoy.

Don't ask me where my kids went. All I can say is that I was lost in Africa; the world also offered stars, fish, and probably somewhere, a horse.

Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool

The Walker Art Gallery is fantastic. Go there.

I love it so much, I can pick fights with it.

First because the place shuts at 5pm. How can you shut an art gallery like this at 5pm? Isn't that RIDICULOUS. And it's no good telling me the office workers should visit at weekends. NO. People should be in and out of this place every evening to restore some sanity and balance in their urban lives.

Look, when I am in charge of everything, this is one of the first things I am going to change. Compulsory visits to your most excellent art galleries.

By the way, when that commandment comes in, you can give the Tate a miss. They have the usual boring one-dimensional way of seeing the world. It's all brains-hit-by-hammers stuff there. Yawn yawn yawn. Come to the Walker art gallery instead. They have everything.

Yes, it is exactly that sort of quirky, reverent and irreverent mix that most appeals to art critic Grit. The Walker collection hits this line brilliantly; it finds those works that engage with historical traditions of art and simultaneously plays with the cultural norms, assumptions and expectations these works offer to surprise and subvert. Perfect.

Kids move between a superb collection of the Pre-Raphaelite Bros to bandaged sacks of plastic rubbish.

Personally, I am not a big fan of the plastic rubbish brigade, although I like to see various approaches to art brought together so they can knock against each other. On that score, Bill Viola's Observance is beautifully placed.

Look, here's my final point about the lovely wit and style evident in the Walker collection. They even have the one with the teenage Jesus, all sulky and difficult while he's being told off.

So the commandment from Grit is that you must visit the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool. By Order.

And take the kids. It is not an intimidating place and no-one hated me. In fact all the staff ignored us, while we carried on pointing, photographing, arguing over the ipad, reading aloud, talking about the art, laughing, thinking, and thoroughly enjoying the visit.

Thank you, Walker. Now open your doors for late evening viewing and I'll be your slave forever.

That was a day

Say what you like about Thatcher, she did me a favour.

There I was, providing my junior Shark, Squirrel and Tiger with a lecture on 1980s British social and political history, introducing them to the Toxteth riots, which naturally segued into an explanation of Thatcher Thatcher Milk Snatcher, took a diversion into unionised labour, fell into an extended riff on the place of women then and now, before finishing with a replay of The Specials Ghost Town, and WALLOP! I find the very subject of my educational endeavours, she died.

Bang on cue. My extended lecture on the 1980s no longer 'mother wittering on again', but suddenly relevant to us all, and this time not for my happy reminiscences about my sticky-up Thompson Twins hairstyle (which totally suited me, if you're wondering).

Tiger, Squirrel and Shark, they looked at me with a new and quiet awe. Mama had clearly brought about this state of affairs through educational mind power alone. If she can do that to ex-prime ministers, what can she do to us?

At the very least, my children, place you in one of the key areas of the country when you can honestly answer that question, Where were you when Thatcher died? with 'In Liverpool, home of anti-Thatcher riots, place of Militant Tendency, above a pole dancing club, where we can listen to the explosions and cheers of the street revelers below'.

I'm assuming this sequence of events is pure coincidence by the way, and not the power of the spoken word, carried on a special poisoned air, flying from this place to hers, to knock her sideways. But I'm not telling the kids that.

For me, I don't know whether to punch the air or continue my lecture with a sober addendum on woman power. At this point, I can't tell the little grits whether Thatcher saw the inevitable changes that were coming to the UK's industrial heritage and simply precipitated them, or whether she caused the misery and grief and mayhem out of blind ignorance and willful spite aimed at male-dominated union power. Maybe both.

But Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have certainly had an educational time of it. Not only have we delivered the death of a most controversial ex-prime minister, we've renegotiated the Slavery Museum and the Maritime Museum, both of which bring an odd tangential support to an impromptu politics lesson while we explore the world in terms of power and control, resistance and defiance.

And thanks, Liverpool. You're certainly making this outing one to remember.

Liverpool!

Yes, Liverpool! That's why we're here, to see Liverpool!

For the educational preparation, I've read aloud to the little grits the poignant and funny Twopence to Cross the Mersey by Helen Forrester; pointed to the slave trade which is obviously not the same as please tidy your room; I've instructed my trusting little charges in how to set a milk float alight and wheel it towards the enemy (Toxteth 1981); and I've navigated once again those subjects which are so routinely on the curriculum of our home ed experience - power, politics, authorities, and responsibilities.

And culture, of course, I have talked about that because Liverpool is the capital of culture 2008.

It is shopping paradise, isn't it? I spend a good hour scuttling between Lush, News from Nowhere community bookshop on Bold Street, and the cash point, on the notional idea that 'I am equipping us with what we need to stay in our chi-chi apartment'. This actually seems to come down to a bag of glitter bath bombs, a stack of radical books, and a postcard of a cat.

But then it is all go, go, go! On Grit's excursions you have no time to rest your feet! Let's go on a tour of Liverpool!

First stop, place of holy pilgrimage, the Cavern Club! I would like to tell Shark, Tiger and Squirrel how this famous location is a must-visit for today's music scene in Liverpool.

I cannot. First I have to explain about the Beatles (met with indifference), then I have to explain why the last band I can find playing here are a sad disappointment to my fancies about a world-class venue for upcoming talent (Chas 'n' Dave).

Okay, forget the Cavern Club. The architecture!

Anyone interested in Georgian, Victorian gothic, Arts and Crafts, renovated docks, and objects of wonder perched atop magnificent late nineteenth century structures, aka the liver birds, then Liverpool is your destination.

Although the docks were bombed in the second world war, plenty of solid buildings remain in the city, so thank the Lord that Liverpool was too poor to be able to afford to knock them down. The town has a collection of superb late Victorian buildings and you should all visit to applaud them, just in case some mad town planner thinks it would be a great idea to open development and build a shopping centre and car park instead.

Now it's the Slavery Museum to discover how the city became rich; how Liverpool supported the confederacy in the American Civil War; and how Britain took the role of the maritime police in abolishing the slave trade, making us look suspiciously like we were finding new excuses to beat the shit out of the French and anyone else we could find to lever moral, political and economic advantages.

But we're not finished yet! Yay for the UK Border Museum! Down in the basement to the Maritime Museum, so not far to walk. Yes, it is a bit preachy and one-sided, but what did you expect? It offers interesting factoids to store away for later use.

The other view of Liverpool I note is the urban style. Obviously I cannot go round photographing the ladeez in the street unless I want a split lip, but I can confide there is a lot of animal print about, plastic and nylon leopard in particular, plus a great deal of tottering in Hong Kong-style footwear, i.e. fashion items for which even a season is too long. This fashion season, probably all two days of it in Liverpool, is platform soles, studs, spikes, and seven-inch heels. I am in awe of those.

I tell my big Grits that Liverpool could just bring about a change in Mama Grit. After all, the leopard print is not the garment of a down-beaten woman. It is the choice of a matriarch, a signal of the don't mess with me mindset and a flag of defiance to age and circumstance. Sounds just about right.

Clearly I should be single (and male)

Arrive at the city centre apartment in Liverpool. Conveniently sited over a pole dancing club and a late night girly bar.

The apartment is designed as if I am a chic young urban professional, and I like to stay in places that are black, white, steel, with television sets bolted onto the ceiling.

I think, with this interior design and the proximity to the pole dancing club, if I am to properly enjoy this apartment, I should be 25, footloose, and have a penis. As things stand, I am 52, bullied by three kids, and connected to a gas hob where I can forever cook a hearty pasta dinner.

Anyway, see for yourself. I can't stop gawping in horror. There is a silver animal's head over the kitchen sink. Could be buffalo. The word steer keeps coming into my mind, alongside images of cowboys strangely dressed like yuppies and memories of Habitat circa 1982. We all look at the head incredulously for a while, wondering why, then Shark announces there are no bookcases in the flat but she has counted three television sets. The young man showing us the apartment confides that it is his favourite place and he loves it here!

We are so clearly not the target residents - aspirant urbanites, hen ladies and stag buddies - but I ignore that to tell everyone how we can enjoy many aspects of staying in this city centre apartment! Even though we haven't a penis. After all, it is very chi-chi these days to live in urban style over a brothel.

Then I spend the next hour unpicking myself from that remark via awkward questions regarding poles. I end up explaining that you must have very strong stomach muscles to hang onto a pole and, inspired by this experience, I might try it for myself down the gym.

Apart from the steer and the pole dancing and the need to cook a hearty pasta dinner, the gentleman seeing us into the place is so very sure we will like it, that he almost suggests he will kill himself if we fail to adore it all. He is so attentive to any possible requirements I have, that for a moment I think he might be flirting with me, except I am old enough to be his great-grandmother. And I am sure I remember his zoot suit the first time around.

He fusses at me, clucking about how wonderful is the stylish apartment with the 2,000 television channels and the fantastic jacuzzi and the discounts he can procure - we only have to ask! - that I forget to check whether the urban style comes with any tribal-sized saucepans in which to cook that family-sized pasta imperative.

When he's gone I discover in the black and silver micro kitchen there are indeed three tiny saucepans. Each could contain - oh, at least 3mm of water - so it's the corner chippie for us. But I should travel the vibe of this chi-chi urban lifestyle! I should breathe a sigh of relief! Between the vibrant nightlife, the city centre noodle bar, the late-night bistros, and the pole dancing club, here at least my aspirant urbanite side can, at breakfast, play at boiling an egg.